A/N: The inevitable confrontation, ladies, gentlemen, and others. Enjoy :)
Chapter 4
Eighteen Months Later
(May 2004)
Draco chased perfection with the compulsiveness of a niffler seeking gold.
He always had. Always, and he hadn't even realised it. He'd sought to be the best, the most respected, the most well-behaved son of any of his parents' friends, and he had been. He'd sought to be the loudest, the most headstrong, and the leader of every game that he and his friends played, because that was the top position and top was his.
The best looking – which Pansy had once agreed with in awe and then with increasing derision – and the smartest. The best, most reputable at school, too, which he'd managed with the exception of a single infuriating Muggleborn that planted herself firmly in his way.
A perfect prefect of Slytherin, which he was. Perfect in his OWL results, which he'd managed. And, even wrought with fear and the sheer, mind-numbing realisation that what he was doing was wrong, a perfect Death Eater. That last was a smear upon his window of shiny white perfection, but the smudge was perfectly black nonetheless.
The tallest of his friends, because it had somehow become a competition. The best flier. The first of his dorm-mates to be chosen on the quidditch team. Perfect dress, perfect hair, perfect performance in his potions and perfect handwriting, which was another source of derision from Pansy that Draco perceived as ineffectually veiled envy.
From where that drive had arisen, Draco didn't know. He didn't really care, but it was curious to consider the nature of one's innate drive. Draco had done just that over the years, latching onto all that presented itself as a potential source of perfection.
Photography fell solidly into that category. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, given that the thrill of his search was utterly delectable – while skill with a camera and lens might be attainable through practice, the perfect picture was far harder to come by.
Leaning over the tray before him, Draco agitated the distilled water within with gentle, deliberate nudges. The glare of the shadowed red light throughout the room, pooling in even the darkest corners, gave the water an uncanny resemblance to blood, but that similarity was one that Draco had long ago learnt to overlook. It was worth it to produce his photographs in such a primal, involved manner.
The dark room was something of a retreat for him. He'd all but stumbled upon it by chance in the early days of his apprenticeship under Dimitri in what had been a curious peek yet deteriorated into both a thorough explanation and a guided tour. At the time, when Draco was still uncertain of involving himself too greatly in Muggle technology, let alone Muggle chemicals, he'd peered into the room flooded with its ruddy light uneasily.
How ignorant he'd been. Draco hadn't understood then that what he saw would be one step closer to the perfect picture he'd made his goal for years.
The room was quiet, humming with the electrical murmur that seemed to pervade every Muggle building, but otherwise unbroken in that quietness. It was cluttered with tables, counters laden with trays, and yet more counters boasting cupboards of bottled chemicals and draws of tools. No less than five sinks lined one wall, their white porcelain dyed as red as the white walls, and those walls themselves were hidden behind pictures of all sizes of an endless mosaic disrupted only by an unremarkable clock wedged in its midst.
Draco loved it. He never would have thought it possible to become partial to something so completely Muggle in nature but he loved it. Chemicals and chemistry wasn't potions, but it was close enough and unexpectedly nostalgic. Never was Draco more content than when he worked in the dark room that felt more and more like his, despite being in a building hosting experts in the field.
Because it was. It was his. Every employee of importance in the building had come to understand that, too.
As Draco eased one of his prints from the tray to rinse it under the sink, the clock ticked. As he peered at the image beneath the gentle flow of water, sweeping it clear of chemicals, that clock was his only company. And as he worked to squeegee the paper and rid it of the remaining droplets of water, that clock remained the only interruption of his work.
Until his phone buzzed in his pocket.
"I'm not answering," Draco muttered, more to himself than to whoever lay on the other end of the call. "Leave a message."
The phone continued to buzz. When it stopped, Draco had already hung his print to dry from the strings criss-crossing the room above head-height before moving his remaining trays.
His phone buzzed again.
"I said leave a message."
Again. An incessant buzz.
Sighing, Draco paused in his hanging to glare down at his pocket. Muggle phones were certainly convenient, and far more usable than Patronus messages or Floo calls, but they always seemed to catch him at a bad time. Granted, most times were bad in Draco's opinion, but even so.
Stepping away from his prints, Draco peeled his gloves off with a snap. He tossed them towards the bin in the corner of the room with pin-point accuracy as he extracted out his phone. Flipping it open, he grunted his annoyance. "What do you want?"
"Ah… Mr. Malfoy? This is Mr. Malfoy, yes?"
"It is." Draco took himself towards the sink and absently turned the tap on, wedging his phone between his shoulder ad his ear. "What do you want?"
From the voice – unfamiliar and youthful – it was likely an intern given the regrettable duty of contacting him. Draco had been made a full and independent employee of the company months ago, a position he was already considering dropping in pursuit of freelancing, but even with only months under his belt, he knew he had a reputation for one-track-mindedness. Dimitri made a running joke of it.
"You don't want to disrupt him when he's working," he'd said to their crew time and time again. He always wore that little smile, a smile typically in place of words as Draco had long ago discovered. "He'll bite your nose off if your ruin a shot for him."
And rightly so, went unsaid. If there was one commonality between Draco and Dimitri, it was their commitment to their work. Dimitri didn't like to be disrupted either, and even if he didn't 'bite the nose off' of any who sought to interrupt him, his subordinates and many an assistant knew him well enough not to try.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," said kid on the other end of Draco's line. "I'm just relaying a message from Mr. Nilsson. He said you'd want to be told about this one right away."
Draco paused with his hands still under the tap. "What is it?" he asked lowly.
"A meeting, sir. Just a meeting, was all he said."
Draco chewed on the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to leave in the middle of his work, but… Well, he was almost done. And whoever the kid was had it right; Draco didn't drop his work for just anyone, but Dimitri was one of the few that warranted it.
Clicking his tongue, Draco flicked the tap off with a sharp, almost aggressive twist. Frowning at his hanging prints – he always did like watching them in the process of developing – he snatched the role of paper towels of the counter alongside him. "Fine. Tell him I'll be there in a few."
"Thank you, sir," the kid said, and the phone shut off with a beep. For a moment, when Draco drew it away from his ear, he considered dropping his phone into the bin as well. Only his begrudging acceptance of the need for being contactable, a need that an aspiring freelancer definitely held, stayed his hand.
With another click of his tongue, he turned and strode from the room.
Monday didn't find the halls of the Building Eight as empty as they rightly should have been at lunch hour. After all, the beginning of the week was always crazed, overrun with workers who had neglected their duties over the weekend or had pushed back Friday's work under the false sentiment that "I'll get it done easily enough next week". They never did, but Draco didn't need the foolishness of their collective example to know better. He would never be so lax.
Dodging around the scurrying workers, most in soaring high-heels or dress shoes buffed to a shine, Draco made his way towards the elevator. He packed himself in the back corner, arms folded against the press of harried workers with their own arms laden beneath stacks of folders and papers, and forced his way out as soon as the doors opened upon the seventeenth floor.
Dimitri's office was unchanged from how Draco had first seen it years before. One of the few photographers granted not only his own rooms but a suite adjacent to a studio for his own personal use, it breathed prestige and superiority in a way that Draco hadn't initially realised. Regardless, he let himself through the door with barely a knock and swept through the studio to the office itself, pausing only as he reached the doorway.
He rolled his eyes at the sight that present itself. "Urgent my arse," he muttered to himself.
In the room, the conversation ceased. Dimitri glanced towards Draco, nodding his head in greeting, but it was his conversation partner that caught Draco's attention. She turned in her seat at the low sofa with the languid grace of entitlement and deliberately crossed her legs in the same motion. How she always managed to look like a presiding tigress, Draco would never know.
"Draco, dear," Pansy said, a smile spreading across her purple lips. "Lovely of you to join us."
"You interrupted my printing," he said, leaning against the door frame and raising an eyebrow. "Did you have to?"
"I do so hope that he's not so rude to all of your clients," Pansy said with a sidelong glance towards Dimitri. "He must be dwindling your business significantly."
Dimiti's typical smile arose. "Only the best," he said. "I actually learnt to use his frankness as a means of determining whose demands were best to consider."
"Frankness? Well, that's one way of putting it that I haven't heard before." Pansy shook her head, her immaculate curtain of hair swishing around her chin. "You must be happy to be finally rid of him, Dimitri."
Draco let them talk. Pansy rarely, if ever, showed up at Dimitri's studio anymore, though over the years she'd had far more than a foot through the door of Draco's education. From curiosity, or so she called it. Draco thought it was more akin to nosiness, but he couldn't complain. She'd given the opportunity that he'd grown to so appreciate in the first place, after all.
But if she was at the studio… "Have you got business with Dimitri, Pansy?" Draco asked, for if she'd wanted to speak to Draco directly she would have Floo-messaged him. Or called by phone, as was becoming increasingly typical of her.
"Of a sort," Pansy replied. "Though I find myself swayed by suggestion, as it were."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," Dimitri said, "how would you feel about accepting a shoot at Syren?"
Draco blinked. For a moment, he was duly grateful that he was already leaning against the doorframe for support. He almost couldn't believe his ears, and Dimitri's words took a moment to properly make sense. Syren was… well, it was young, up-and-coming, and largely grey when considering future expectations for the magazine itself, but it had more than made a name for itself. Swiftly, efficiently, and in an unexpected explosion of popularity. Draco had taken as much interest in it as any other magazine – which was to say that he'd brought half a dozen copies over the past six months and read each issue back-to-back – and they were clearly doing something right.
More importantly, however - or more importantly to Draco - Syren was one of the first Muggle-Wizard collaboration companies to step into the modern media industry. There had been others, smaller and less successful, but this was different. This was bigger. This was impressive.
To think that Pansy had someone managed to scoop herself a spot for an article in its pages as Draco was rapidly becoming aware she had - it was incredible.
Shaking himself from his stupor long enough to register that Pansy was very distinctly smirking, Draco frowned at Dimitri. "Would I like to?"
"Yes," Dimitri replied with a placid smile.
"Not yourself?"
"He assures me that you're more than competent," Pansy said, smirk still firmly affixed. Draco shifted his frown towards her, but she ignored the glance. "And, though I hesitate to consider you'd be up to Dimitri's standards, I think that certain elements of Syren lend itself to you."
Draco's frown became a glare, but he didn't protest. He couldn't, not with Dimitri – oblivious but surprisingly perceptive Dimitri – in the room to pick up on any whisper of suspicious suggestion. Dimitri was remarkably sharp-eared when it came to magical slips-of-the-tongue.
Even so, Dimitri hummed thoughtfully before saying, "You have shown a touch of interest in it, Draco. Why is that, exactly?"
"It's popular," Draco replied smoothly. "I would be foolish to not be interested in it, especially with how rapidly its growing. I'm not so satisfied in my position here that I'd not grasp any employment opportunity at Syren with both hands."
Far from put-out, Dimitri's smile grew faintly approving. He nodded slightly. "Then this will be a good opportunity for you."
"An opportunity that you're giving me?"
"Yes. So don't mess it up. Show them what you've got."
Draco nodded slowly before switching his gaze towards Pansy. "Speaking of opportunities, how did you land one at Syren? You're not that well connected."
"If you truly believe that, then you do me a disservice," Pansy said with a sniff that didn't appear all that dissatisfied. She seemed like a cat who'd gotten the cream for her own emanating satisfaction. "I have connections."
"Hm."
"But more than that, I'm excellent at my job." Pansy arched her eyebrows pointedly. "Aren't I, dear?"
Draco could have fallen into their usual exchange. He could have denied her, given her proof of the validity of his denial, scarce as it was, and she would have rebuffed him. They could have escalated their debate into verbal blows that could have shaken the whole building.
But Draco held his tongue. They had a witness, after all. With a momentary glance towards Dimitri that he knew Pansy would interpret as "not now, later", he allowed himself a nod. "Indeed you are."
"Why, thank you."
"When you fish for your own compliments, it doesn't require gratitude, Pansy." When Pansy only smiled her feline smile, he shook his head. "Well, then? You've a job booked, I take it?"
"That I do," Pansy said, uncrossing her legs and rising fluidly to her feet. In her impractically high shoes, she was of a height with Draco himself when she clicked her way to his side. "This afternoon is our first meeting with the subject, in fact."
Draco frowned. "So soon? You've given me such little notice, Pansy, I can't be expected to –"
"Oh, pipe down, Draco," Pansy said, waving a hand in his face. "It's just a meet and greet. Agencies like that, you know, and Syren apparently does, too. It's part of their policy."
She didn't need to expand upon the why; Draco was more than familiar with the delicacy of dealing with both the Wizarding world and Muggles in the same environment. He only rolled his eyes as though in exasperation, which drew a knowing smile from Dimitri as Pansy turned towards him. "Thank you for your time, Dimitri. And my apologies, I suppose, for losing you a job."
Dimitri raised a hand like a shrug. "Not at all. I'm more than happy to give you my apprentice."
"Apprentice no more," Draco reminded him, because he couldn't help himself. He'd graduated from that role. He'd graduated perfectly.
"So it seems," Pansy said with a humming chuckle. Turning, she beckoned Draco with a flick of her finger. "Come along, then, cameraman. I'll treat you to lunch before we head over there."
"Call me cameraman again," Draco muttered, obligingly turning to follow her, "and I swear you'll regret it."
Pansy only laughed as she clopped through Dimitri's empty studio. "Trust me, Draco, after the opportunity I've landed you today, you'll be the one regretting every slight you've ever paid me."
Draco doubted that. He doubted it very much. Nonetheless, with barely a nod of farewell to Dimitri, he followed in Pansy's wake as she swept from the room.
The room Draco found himself in was as sharp-edged and severe as the woman who inhabited it. All dark walls, pointed shelving, and filing cabinets pressed flush against the walls. Even the wide desk seemed somehow threatening, its breadth a barricade, as though to intimidate any potential threats away from the woman sitting behind it.
Not that she appeared to need any help. Draco didn't think he was someone easily cowed, though he'd learnt years ago when it was best to back down and bow his head. When one's life and that of one's family was on the line was usually a good place to start. Draco didn't put the woman across from him quite on par with the likes of the defeated Dark Lord or his own deranged aunt, but it came surprisingly closer than he would have anticipated.
It was even more surprising for the fact that she wasn't a witch. That much was made starkly clear from the moment Draco followed Pansy into the room.
"You'll not use a lick of magic within these walls," she'd said by way of introduction. "If you do, you'll be out before you can regret drawing your wand."
Draco had already been in a disgruntled mood. Pansy, for all of her taunting and tempting, dangling the potential carrot of her contract with Syren, had been close-lipped since they'd left Dimitri and Building Eight behind them. "All in good time," she'd said when Draco posed his questions with increasing demand. "Hold your hippogriffs, Draco. All in good time."
To say that Draco was miffed would be an understatement. He didn't like to be kept in the dark. He didn't like not knowing what was going on, even if it was in a situation far less deadly than those he'd been forced into as a terrified teenager. A pre-interview meeting wasn't exactly the same thing, but he nevertheless disliked it.
"You could have at least told me we weren't going to Syren's head office before I'd agreed to come along," Draco muttered as he followed Pansy out of the taxi.
Turning from waving the driver off, Pansy shot him a dubious glance. "What, you wouldn't have come if you'd know beforehand?"
Draco regarded the unremarkable building before him. It was about twenty floors too short to be a head office, in his opinion. He'd scarcely needed Pansy to confirm his suspicions. "I could have prepared myself better," was all he said in reply.
Pansy snorted as she stepped past him. "Prepare yourself for what? It's not like the real interviewing process is even starting today."
That was another factor that contributed to Draco's annoyance. Apparently, Pansy wasn't even starting her interview that day, was barely partaking in the unofficial meet-and-greet, to say nothing of Draco's shooting. If her vague suggestions were anything to go by, he wouldn't be starting for several weeks.
"I'm not shooting immediately?" Draco had asked as he'd followed Pansy from Building Eight.
"No," she'd replied shortly.
"So when do I start?" he'd asked as they'd crawled through midday traffic.
"When we've worked out the timetable," was all she'd offered.
"Will I get assistants or am I entirely independent?" he'd asked as they turned into the plain street that housed the short building, barely noticing the speckling of shops that dotted the spaces between office buildings. "Who am I working with?"
"We'll work it out soon enough."
"Where am I shooting at?"
"We'll work that out later, too."
"Do I get a contract? What's the duration like? How many hands will I have to help -?"
"Calm down, calm down," Pansy had interrupted him as the car drew to a halt. "This is just the preliminaries, Draco. Try and enjoy the preparation before you become too invested in the actual journey."
Draco had huffed, settling back into the taxi's threadbare seat, and folded his arms. "Would you at least tell me who it is, then?" he'd asked for the umpteenth time.
That time, Pansy had only smiled cryptically and replied just as vaguely. "Not a Muggle. You should be happy with that."
To be truly honest, Draco didn't care. He didn't care whether he shot a Muggle or a wizard or witch. Despite his past distaste for them that rivalled Pansy's, he'd grown to care little for such things. If anything, at times Muggles were even preferable to work with; they didn't eye him as though he was about to throw himself into a frenzy of preaching about his 'murdered Dark Lord', or worse, as though he were a dangerous viper that needed to be stomped out. The first time he'd been told of that assumption by one such employer had been a rude awakening, if not entirely unexpected.
Draco grumbled and huffed at Pansy's vagueness throughout the entire trip. He was still cursing her under his breath when she strode to the glass door of the office building and let herself in. The foyer was empty but for a receptionist who eyed Pansy through sensible glasses as she approached her.
"A meeting at three o'clock," Pansy said. "Parkinson."
The receptionist nodded expectantly, glancing briefly at the chunky computer at her side before turning to an open planner spread across the desk at the other hand. "Of course," she said. "Ms. Picard will be with you shortly."
Which she was. 'Ms. Picard' hadn't wasted any time in all but hauling Draco and Pansy into her office barely minutes later. After gesturing to a pair of seats in offering to the both of them, coupled by her short, severe forbiddance of the use of magic in her company, she settled straight-backed into her chair and regarded them both with slightly narrowed eyes. She was intimidating, that was certain, but Draco found her less aversive than she could have been; he might even prefer working with Muggles these days for the absence of their stigma against him, but there was a certain liberty to be felt with Wizarding company.
"Pansy Parkinson," Picard finally said. "It's good of you to meet in such circumstances."
"Not at all," Pansy replied with a benevolence Draco knew was a refined facade. "I had an opening in my day, and your office isn't so far out of my way."
Picard nodded curtly. "Nonetheless, it's appreciated. This situation… Syren has been making a mess of things, to say the least."
"It is somewhat delicate," Pansy said, nodding.
"You acknowledge it as delicate and even difficult, and yet readily agree to step up to the challenge?"
"Well, I'm not entirely altruistic in my acceptance of your offer."
"No, perhaps not. I've no doubt it will do your name a degree of good in the long run, if not so greatly in the near future."
Pansy's smile was small but fierce. Unexpectedly so, Draco thought, because despite her initial benevolent performance, she rarely showed such sincerity. Rarely to never, in Draco's experience. "Then we're of a like-mindedness. I doubt the assumption of your own role is entirely pure of intention either."
Draco glanced between them with only his eyes. There was something going on here. Something that Draco wasn't partial to. He was about to ask, to demand an answer for ignorance, but Picard turned sharply towards him a moment later.
"You too," she said. "Don't think I've overlooked you, Draco Malfoy."
Draco's eyebrow twitched. "You have a problem with myself but not Parkinson?"
"I didn't say I have a problem."
"Your attitude speaks differently."
Picard grunted. She didn't fidget, didn't even blink through her fierce stare, and yes, Draco might consider her intimidating, but she was also guileless. She didn't plaster a smile upon her face and preach that she'd 'accepted the wrongdoings of a sinner of the past' as Draco had been apparently been accepted countless times before. He didn't think she was likely to hiss and spit allegations as soon as his back was turned, either, nor deteriorate into childish glares and sneers of distaste.
"What are your intentions, Malfoy?" she finally said, lips thinned but apparently not quite disgruntled.
Draco's eyebrow rose further. "My intentions?"
"It's no secret that this job will put you in the limelight. In the favourable limelight, if also an eventuality rather than an immediate reward. Your name will be attached to Parkinson's articles, to say nothing of your photographs, and every single person in the Wizarding world will see them. I can assure you of that much."
Draco stared at her. She assumes I know what my position entails, he thought, fighting the urge to glare at Pansy. Could she have possibly managed to leave him any further in the dark if she'd tried? Given it was Pansy, she'd likely actively tried to do just that; she was nothing if not a sadist who got an insurmountable amount of pleasure from distressing those around her. But Draco had thought himself immune to her ploys.
A glance at her sidelong found her expression deceptively mild. He was under no allusions that his speculations were correct.
I don't even know who I'm bloody well shooting, he growled to himself. Then he set his jaw. Well, two can play at this game.
Settling comfortably back into his chair, Draco casually extended his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles. "You seem to be under the impression that I would consider such publicity a bad thing," he said.
"Isn't it?" Picard tilted her head. "You don't think recrimination will be cast upon you?"
"Doubt and incrimination is already cast upon me. What worse could happen?"
"Death threats," Picard replied with unnerving promptness. "Even attempted enactments of such threats."
Draco blinked slowly. "I take it that such extremes have befallen photographers in my position before?"
Picard didn't need to nod. "And interviewers," she said, glancing to Pansy. "You're far from safe, and I can't offer you protection. It will likely be only worse for you both, given your questionable history."
"Questionable is one way of putting it," Pansy said without inflection.
"Will we be compensated?" Draco asked.
Picard settled her gaze back upon him. She had eyes like a hawk. "On top of your rates?"
I don't even know how much I'm being paid, Draco almost hissed. But he only nodded. "You've just indicated that my life may be jeopardised. Of course I'd demand compensation."
A little unexpectedly, Picard nodded without further delay. "Of course. I wouldn't consider overlooking it."
Draco could almost feel Pansy smirking at his side. He pointedly ignored her, just as he ignored the urge to swing a kick at her ankle. "What do you project is the likely duration of this endeavour?" he asked instead.
"At least two months," Picard replied. "And that will just be for the initial collection."
Initial? How many are we talking? Draco was torn between concern and satisfaction at the prospect; it was clearly well paying, with a prominent figure in the Wizarding world and likely the Muggle world too, and it would proceed for an extended period. How could he not be satisfied? But then again…
Well, it's not like my life hasn't been at risk before, he thought a little grimly, but shrugged the thought aside as Pansy spoke up.
"Will we be holding a meet-and-greet today, then?" she asked. "To see where everyone stands?"
Picard grunted lowly again. Despite her diminutive stature, it didn't seem strange coming from her. "I think 'meet-and-greet' is an improper use of terms."
"Then perhaps a friendly catch up," Pansy said with a hint of a smile.
In reply, Picard gave a brief nod before reaching for the handset in the corner of her desk. She tapped out a short series of numbers, pressing it to her ear. Draco watched her blankly, determinedly ignoring Pansy's side-eye, and for the first time actually hoped that she had some Empathy Magic or even secondary Legilimancy skills so she would feel his intentions.
I'm going to kill you when we get out of here, he thought as clearly as he could, all but ignoring Picard when she spoke with a "where are you at the moment? Nearly here?" You won't have to worry about any death threats on the job, because I'll tear you a new one for being such a snide, conniving bitch. I'm one of the only bloody friends you've got, you –
"- tell Harry to come straight in when he does, if you would."
Draco's stream of mental curses screeched to a halt. It was all he could do to keep his blank mask firmly affixed to his face. To look at Pansy would have shattered it, so he stared at Picard instead. Stared without seeing, because –
Harry?
"They're just around the corner," Picard said, settling the phone down on its hook.
Surely she doesn't mean…
"Wonderful," Pansy said, almost purring. She was clearly enjoying herself far too much.
But then, what other Harry would be… could possibly be…?
Picard rose from her chair, though Draco barely noticed. "If you'll excuse me for one moment, I'll have a word with him before you meet."
You fucking bitch.
This time, when Picard stalked from the room and closed the door behind her, Draco swung towards Pansy with the full force of his glare. "I hate you," he growled.
Pansy only smiled languidly. She even went to far as to almost recline in her chair, legs extending before her. "Is that delight I can hear in your voice, Draco, dear?"
"You didn't tell me?" Horrifyingly, Draco's voice was slightly choked, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care at that moment. "You didn't think to let me know that when you all but dragged me into a job –
"Dragged?"
"- that it would be of Harry bloody Potter?"
"You know, you should be thanking me," Pansy said, crossing her ankles and flicking a finger towards him. "It's a ridiculously well-paid job."
"You –"
"Syren is rolling in fame at the moment, both in the Wizarding world and the Muggle one."
"How can you -?"
"It's bound to be long term, because 'initial collection'?" Pansy snorted. "Picard knows that when the world gets a taste of him they'll want more. There's bound to be another, if not more still, and definitely one absent of all the necessary tiptoeing around magic that the Muggle version will have. More than that, you're the one who'll be doing the shots. It will put you out in the open. You'll be snatched up instantly."
"Yes, but a predator taking offence that an ex-Death Eater is working so closely with the beloved Saviour," Draco grumbled. Seething, he hunched into he seat. His mind was awhirl, and not because Pansy spoke fallacies. She was right. This job would open doors for him.
It wasn't because it would be long-term either, and that he wanted to stretch his wings a little after his apprenticeship. He would be an utter fool to pass up the job opportunity, not only shooting for Syren but a bloody icon like Harry Potter.
It wasn't even because of what would definitely be threats flung his way, most likely from the Wizarding community but possibly from envious fans of Harry Potter the Muggle model, too. That mattered, but it wasn't unfamiliar to Draco.
No, what really unsettled him, what really knocked him from his stable footing, was…
"I've done you a favour," Pansy said, flicking her finger at him once more. "Don't pretend you're not hungry for it. You've wanted to shoot Potter for how long now?"
Draco couldn't look at her. It wasn't really a secret – or it was, but one they shared. Draco couldn't hide that, since the moment he'd first stepped into Dimitri Nilsson's office, from the second he'd seen Potter's picture and even before he'd realised who he was, he'd wanted to photograph him. That almost-perfect shot was the closest to absolute perfection that Draco had ever seen.
He'd unwittingly made it his mission. Unfortunately, Pansy knew that.
Draco had been obsessed with the legend of Harry Potter as a child. He'd lived with the understanding that he was going to have him as his friend years before he'd attended Hogwarts. When they'd become rivals, Draco didn't hide the fact that his obsession hadn't died. It had taken a turn for hatred, true, with a healthy dose of rivalry tossed into the mix, but it persisted.
Even in sixth year, when Draco had been so entangled by the threat of the Dark Lord, the threat to his family, to himself, he hadn't forgotten. Every class, every time he saw Potter, he couldn't help but wonder. He couldn't help but wish for the 'good old days' when they'd truly been rivals, when he'd hated him as reflection in the years since found he probably hadn't hated quite so deeply. Those moments, their brief bouts of conflict – they were surprisingly calming. An unexpected buoy in the turbulent sea that Draco's life had become.
Harry Potter had been a part of Draco's life long before he'd ever seen him with his own two eyes. More than that, after the war, after their rivalry had been all but extinguished in the face of something so much bigger…
A hand appeared in Draco's line of sight. A hand with a wand, and not a word about either of them.
Draco blinked, unable to quite raise his head from where it hung, to unclasp his hands from where they were clamped around back of his neck, to lift his elbows from his knees. The room was echoing with voices, bodies moving and curses of disgust aplenty, but he didn't care. Draco's attention hauled itself from his despair towards the wand, because he knew that wand. Of course he knew it. He'd held it in his own hand countless times before.
"What do you want, Potter?" Draco said quietly. He almost winced at how his voice crackled, but he couldn't summon the energy to care all that much.
"It's yours."
Draco stared. I know, he thought. I know it's mine. But he couldn't bring himself to take it. "Not anymore."
"Bullshit."
Flinching slightly, Draco raised his eyes – just his eyes – towards Potter. Potter, who he'd been obsessed with the possibility of since he was a child, who he'd hated, who he'd even feared at one point. Potter, who looked tired, and worn, and scruffy as ever in his typically ill-fitting clothes. He looked like he'd been the one who'd just been on trial for his freedom instead of Draco.
But, as he always did, he stared at Draco with an unwavering gaze. Whether it was with anger, frustration, confusion, or even plea as Draco had seen only the once, Potter was always unwavering. And his eyes – Draco had hated Potter, but he'd always been a little enchanted, too. When Potter stared at him, it was impossible not to look back.
"Bullshit," Potter said again, just as quietly and blandly as before. He extended Draco's wand towards him just a little further. "Just because I took it from you doesn't mean it's not still yours."
"That's not how wands work, Potter," Draco muttered, lowering his gaze to the ground once more. He wanted to take his wand. He wanted it desperately, and he'd had felt naked without it, even with his mother's as a temporary replacement. He'd never fully appreciated the loyalty of a wand until he'd had to borrow one instead of using what was truly his.
"I've heard about that," Potter said. "Yeah. I've heard a lot about that lately. But still…"
Draco didn't glance up again, but he couldn't help eyeing his wand sidelong when Potter placed it on the worn length of bench alongside him. The straight rod of wood was two shades paler than that of the seat.
"Consider it yours again," Potter said, as if it was that simple. "Consider this me giving it back to you."
"You can't just do that," Draco said, unable to drag his stare from the wand.
"I can. I am. I don't want it anyway."
"You –"
"I've always only wanted my own."
With an effort, Draco tore his eyes from the wand towards Potter. As soon as he did, he was caught by Potter's stare once more. Unwavering. Stubborn, but not confrontational. How he managed both at once, Draco didn't know, and he almost asked.
Instead, what slipped out was, "Why?"
There were so many possibilities in that single word. Why are you giving this to me? Why would you dare to? Why are you being kind, even if you don't directly mean to be? Why, why, why?
Whether Potter heard any of the surplus of questions, Draco didn't know. Instead, he shrugged a shoulder, hand absently reaching into his back pocket and extracting his own wand. Not the Elder Wand, Draco saw. His own, the one Draco had seen him use for years. The one distinctly pale and made more so for the sharp contrast with his fingers.
"Why not?" was all Potter said in reply.
That was it. That was all of it. Draco didn't thank Potter, and he didn't have the chance after Potter turned and walked away, weaving through the crowd that skittered aside and practically parted for his passage anyway. He didn't talk to Potter after that at all, for that matter. He hadn't been close enough, and he hadn't even seen him but in photographs.
And those photographs. Draco hadn't really believed in inspiration before he'd become a photographer. Logic, reasoning, sense, and fulfilment – that was what mattered. It was what drove everything, from his studies and his commitment to quidditch to the dedication he had to his family. Inspiration, a 'muse', was a flouncy, flourishing word that Draco hadn't really believed.
Maybe that was simply because he found his own just yet? Or at least not one that he let himself acknowledge.
"Don't scowl like that, Draco," Pansy said, breaking into his grumbling thoughts. "It's unbecoming. Besides, you don't want to scare Potter away as soon as he steps through the door."
Draco hadn't even realised he'd been scowling, but he didn't vanquish it as he raised his gaze to glare at Pansy. "Shut the fuck up."
"Tut, tut. You're in a bad mood."
"He wouldn't scare that easily." Folding his arms, Draco narrowed his eyes further. "If anything, he'll be just as likely to hex us as shake our hands."
Pansy seemed not in the least deterred by his blatant hostility. She propped an elbow onto the arm of her chair, her chin resting in her cupped hand. "Oh, I doubt that. Surely you've heard the stories of him. I've not doubt you've even deliberately sought them out."
Shut up, Draco didn't say, because to do so would be as good as admitting he had. "Stories can be biased. You'd know just how much if you had any kind of talent in your interviewing skills."
Pansy chuckled. She actually chuckled rather that raising her hackles indignantly. "Of course. But I also have the ability to sift through the bullshit and see the truth that lies beneath."
Draco rolled his eyes. "You're a gossipmonger, Pansy. You don't understand the meaning of truth."
"Perish the thought, I know only truth. Just as I know that, far be it from the snooty, aggressive boy-hero he was, I can most certainly assure you that those stories in the papers? They're quite accurate."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"What, you don't think he's mellowed out? That he's actually amiable? That he knows how to talk before a camera just as well as he can pose for one?" Pansy's eyebrow arched. "I know you've noticed that, at least, Draco."
Draco almost replied. He almost denied her, which would have been a mistake, for that too would be admitting Pansy's correctness. But he didn't get the chance before the door was swinging open from where it had clicked shut at Picard's departure.
Picard? How did I not bloody well recognise the name Picard? Whether or not he was 'obsessed', Draco should have recalled the name of goddamn Dorothea Picard.
Such scolding slipped from his thoughts in an instant, however, and Draco barely saw Picard at all as she was followed into the room by a pair of men. One – tall, broad, with a perfectly bald head and so well-dressed that he must have spent hours in the sole company of his wardrobe that morning – Draco discarded almost immediately. He wasn't important. What was important was Potter.
Picard said something. Pansy replied. Draco hardly noticed. He pretended he did, pretended he cared, but he couldn't, because seeing Potter? Seeing Harry Potter in the flesh rather than in the static confines of a photograph, regardless of how sublime that picture was?
He looked almost short next to the bald man, but not in a diminutive way. He looked a little dressed-down, too, in simple jeans that seemed fit him like a second skin and a dark jacket with sleeves tugged down to his knuckles hands, but it didn't detract from him. Not in the least. If anything, it only seemed to enhance him.
Not scruffy anymore but artfully groomed. Not sagging beneath the weight of the world but comfortably casual and comfortably straight, as though the world couldn't touch his shoulders if it tried. A small smile, a mild glance around the room, and Potter's gaze slowed on Pansy only to brush past her. Draco met his stare and couldn't look away.
What was it about his eyes? Why were they so goddamn captivating? Draco didn't care what colour they were, but he noticed. He noticed too well, had always noticed – the pale green, a whirlwind of shades – but only ever Potter's. He didn't even think he could rightly say what colour Pansy's eyes were, a fact that she'd taken great delight in should she realise it, and only add to her repertoire of taunts.
"One would think you found him attractive for how often you stare at him, Draco," she'd teased him years ago, attempting and failing to draw his fixed attention.
Draco hadn't been drawn. He couldn't be, not from the very aggressive glaring match he and Potter had been sharing across the classroom. "I can hate someone and still acknowledge they're good-looking, Pansy," he'd replied without hesitation, lip curling as he did so. "Even if he has stupid hair and dresses like a fashion disaster."
"But you think he's attractive?" The skepticism was so thick in Pansy's voice that Draco could almost smell it. "What is it, the eyes?"
"He's got stupid glasses, too," was all Draco had said in reply. He hadn't needed to expand further; to attempt to deny Pansy would have been pointless, anyway.
Years later, and Draco was still caught. As soon as Potter turned his brief glance from Pansy onto him, Draco was captured. What is it about his eyes? he wondered, cursing himself just as he had as a boy but unable to stop staring. The colours, the flecking, that they somehow seemed brighter and bigger and infinitely more captivating than he remembered. Was he using a charm? Curse him if he was, for that was underhanded play. Or was it just because he wasn't wearing glasses?
"… sure you recognise Draco Malfoy, too," Picard was saying, and only Draco's name spoken aloud managed to shake him back to himself. Not quite enough to turn from Potter, however. Definitely not when, quite unexpectedly, Potter smiled.
He smiled. At Draco.
What the fuck?
"Of course," Potter said easily. He glanced back towards Pansy before crossing the room, the bald man following a step behind him like a bodyguard, and offered his hand out to her. She accepted it after an almost indiscernible hesitation, and a moment later, Potter was extending it towards Draco in turn. Draco almost couldn't take it – he didn't know why, but almost couldn't – and similarly almost couldn't let go when he managed.
"This is somewhat unexpected," Potter said, extricating his fingers. They were warm, Draco noticed. Warm and soft, as though he hadn't fought in a war barely years before. "Dorothea told me that Pansy was to take up the baton of interviewing, but I didn't know you were to be the photographer, Draco."
Pansy flinched and Draco did right alongside her. He didn't even need to share a glance with her to know they were wavering upon the same wavelength. Pansy? Draco? What the…?
Clearing his throat, Draco rose from his seat. He didn't necessarily feel threatened by Potter standing before him, above him, but it was certainly more comfortable to be of a height. Or a little bit taller height, he found, which was that little bit more comfortable again.
"Is that going to be a problem?" he asked calmly, quietly. Then, "Harry?"
Merlin, that feels strange. Even in Draco's head, Potter had always been Potter. He didn't know how Potter called his own name so easily with the history that lay between them. It felt… not quite wrong, but definitely –
Potter smiled. Again. And this time just the hint of a dimple shadowed his cheek. How had Draco not noticed he had a dimple, even if only slightly? Potter should stop smiling. He should definitely stop. It was disconcerting.
"It sounds a bit weird, doesn't it?" Potter said, ignoring Draco's mental demand. He shook his head a little. "But, then again, I think it would be weirder if I called you Malfoy, don't you?"
No. Definitely not weirder. Normal, it would have been normal and –
"Old water under the bridge and all that, right?"
No, not at all. It would be better. More distance. More similarity to the past. More –
"We've discussed," Picard said, breaking into Draco's thoughts as he fought not to glare at Potter. For some reason, though she looked at Potter, Draco felt her words were directed towards himself. "This correspondence is mutually beneficial. But it is undertaken with the understanding that, should privacy and privileges be infringed upon, the contract declares your safety is to be put first."
"My safety?" Potter cast a smirk towards her, and he was still smirking when he turned back to Draco. It made his dimple that little bit deeper, which was even worse. "I'd like to think the past is in the past, right?"
Draco had lost his voice. It was a little humiliating, but he hoped his curt nod gave him an impression of dignity rather than incompetency. He didn't even need to shoot Pansy a glance to know she saw straight through him. She always did. He could almost hear her unspoken words: And so it begins again.
"We'll be working out a time for an initial consultation and discussion of timetable over the next few weeks," Picard said, stepping around Potter and heading for her desk. "Von, if you would?"
His nerves were so tightly strung, his senses so pricked and attentive, that Draco nearly tore his wand out of his pocket as the tall bald man extracted his own. He was relieved that he managed not to as the man simply conjured a pair of chairs that looked distinctly more comfortable than Draco and Pansy's.
"So you're entitled to use magic but we're disallowed?" Pansy asked, her tone as deceptively mild as her expression.
"Yes," Picard replied, dropping into her chair. "Do you have a problem with that?"
Pansy only hummed in reply, but the slight narrowing of her eyes, the way she watched the man named Von plant himself between Potter and Draco's chairs, bellowed her disgruntlement. Or it did to Draco, at least.
Not that Draco noticed all that much. He knew he was staring, but he couldn't help it. He watched as Potter settled himself into his chair, wedging his hands between his knees, and leaning towards Von to murmur something inaudible into his ear. He watched as he smiled again, his dimple reappearing, and thought of photographs taken and gazed upon with both a professional eye and something else. Draco watched as Potter glanced briefly towards him before turning back to Picard as she began speaking once more, talking of signing and contracts and "your most available contact number?"
And Draco thought. He thought of his school days and 'water under the bridge'. He thought of changes and how, even though the Potter before him was all but unrecognisable as his teenage rival, there were little bits that were still the same. His unwavering stare, for one. That he seemed so sure of himself, as if he was unconcerned. As if he'd never properly experienced fear, even in the face of his own death in the war.
That was who Potter was, after all. Draco had resented him for that in the past, just as he had so many other things. But he watched Potter from his periphery and listened with half an ear to Picard's sharp words, and those other things rose to the fore. As he thought of the coming months and what they promised, Draco's fingers itched for his camera. He watched, thought, and wondered.
Draco could hate someone but still recognise they were gorgeous. He'd practiced just that habit for years. But what did it mean when that hatred was abruptly found to be… just a little less profound than it had been?
A/N: Thank you to the lovely people keeping up with this story. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Please let me know what you think if you get the chance. I'd absolutely love to hear from you!